


Five (Additional) Times Mrs Hudson was a BAMF

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Season Four Premiere Flashfic [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mrs. Hudson, But we all know who's the coolest of them all, Crack, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, Humour, John can be a little slow to catch on, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: She's a truth-talking, reptile-pushing, soother-taking, exotic-dancing, fake-crying speed demon, who knows exactly how to deal with smack-heads, and without whose presence at Baker Street, England would fall.And she is, most definitely,notyour housekeeper.





	1. The Secret of the Salad Drawer

**Author's Note:**

> Okay folks, enough of that angsty plotty feel-y stuff. Let’s do some crack! No, not you, Sherlock: you’re still on the wagon. Go sit in the corner and think about maintaining healthy boundaries.

The atmosphere was tense in the living room.

Three kitchen chairs were lined up in the middle of the floor, occupied by the three residents of 221 Baker Street, all three of them handcuffed in place.

“Well this is a pretty mess you’ve got us into now, Sherlock,” grumped John, a few moment after the door had closed, a group of heavy boots had tromped away down the stairs, and the door to the street had rattled shut behind the men who’d ambushed them. “The forgers are getting away, we can’t escape, Mrs Hudson’s _terrified_ , and I’m due to pick up Rosie in fifteen minutes. When are you going to learn to stop picking fights with the biggest, meanest dogs on the block without any kind of backup plan?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, twisting his arms behind him in an apparent effort to get comfortable in the handcuffs.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” he said. “They were perfect gentlemen about the whole thing, didn’t even put the boot in when I accidentally deduced that one with the moustache liked to wear high heels around the house.”

“Luckier he didn't put the spiked heel in,” muttered John, trying to get comfortable, too. It was always _hell_ on his shoulder the next day whenever he ended up tied up with his hands behind him.

“You used to be more fun than this,” complained Sherlock.

“ _More fun_!” spluttered John, then turned to his other side, deliberately blocking the other man out. “How are you doing, Mrs H.? Do you need anything? I swear, I had no idea this was going to happen, or I would have made sure you knew to visit Mrs Turner for the afternoon.”

“I’m nearly there, dear,” said Mrs Hudson reassuringly. “Not as young as I used to be.”

“Tick tock,” said Sherlock, who was lounging insouciantly in his chair and apparently texting.

John glared at him. “ _What_ are you talking about now?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.  “I’ve been giving Mrs Hudson lessons.”

His eyes widened as he correctly read the look on John’s face as _tell me what’s going on right-the-fuck-now or there will be serious consequences for that mould experiment you don't think I know you've been culturing in the sink for weeks_.

“If she's going to borrow my handcuffs,” he shrugged, “then she should know how to get them open if she needs to. My key is always getting lost.”

He tucked his phone away, and pulled a loose pair of handcuffs out of his pocket to dangle them meaningfully from one finger.

“Wait,” said John. “When did _you_ get free of—”

“Got it!” said Mrs Hudson, bringing her hands around in front of her, too. She rubbed at one wrist with a moue of dissatisfaction, the cuffs still hanging open from the other. “What was that, about three minutes?”

“Two and thirty-seven seconds,” said Sherlock, sounding faintly impressed.

“Ha!” she cried. “Mrs Turner will be utterly green! That’s almost _half_ her best time!”

John’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them, lost and confused and _still bloody handcuffed to a bloody chair_.

“You’re giving…” he spluttered.  “You're giving Mrs Hudson— _and Mrs Turner_ — _handcuff-picking_  lessons?”

“Oh, _do_ let the poor thing out,” said Mrs Hudson, heaving herself to her feet and wincing as she held a hand to her hip for a moment, the open handcuffs still dangling from her wrist. “It’s not kind to leave him like that, and I want to put some tea on before I get started on the second lock.”

“I’m not stopping the timer for tea breaks,” warned Sherlock, but he obediently got out of his chair and crouched behind John’s chair to begin work on his cuffs.

“You never bloody gave _me_ handcuff lessons!” protested John, glaring at the mop-haired madman over his shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Why, John,” he said, apparently genuinely taken aback. “I didn’t realise you were into that sort of thing.”


	2. The Adventure of the Drug-on's Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so yeah, that happened. Let's do some more crack, all right?
> 
> * * *

“What’s _she_ doing along here?” whispered John, the moment Mrs Hudson had moved far enough away for them to have some semblance of a private conversation.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ , this place is terrible mess,” she called back to them, gesturing around at the vast warehouse stacked with crates and boxes and rows of tables of ominous-looking chemistry equipment, with a cluster of mouldy lounge furniture in the corner. “I don’t know how you expect to find _anything_ here.”

“As ever, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, inclining his head, “I have great faith in your abilities.”

His hands were still in his pockets, where they’d been since he’d picked the lock to let the three of them inside, not that John was stupid enough to think that would make a difference. This was Sherlock, after all.

Taking this case had been a bad idea from the get-go.

Sherlock turned back to John, lowering his voice and sounding a little puzzled. “I thought she could help out. She’s good at this sort of stuff. Better than you—your mind doesn’t work the right way.”

“Sherlock…” John looked up at the ceiling, having horrible flashbacks to the moment when Sherlock had started invited Mary along on cases in John’s place.

“And I’m assuming you’d rather _I_  didn’t get my hands into any of this stuff?” pressed Sherlock, lifting his hands still inside his coat pockets, making it hang out from his body. “Temptation and all?”

“You brought her to search a _drug lab_!” hissed John back at him. “This isn’t just your awful amateur chemist kitchen setup, Sherlock, the people making this stuff are bad. _Very_  bad. They’ve killed people!”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, looking at him strangely. “But it’s empty tonight, we made sure. And it’s _Mrs Hudson_!”

“ _Exactly_!”

“Ooh-ooh!” came Mrs Hudson’s voice, and when John looked, she was leaning out from behind a row of crates not far away. “Are you two having a bit of a domestic? Never mind all that, I found it. High-grade stuff, from the looks of it, much better than Frank used to sell. Hidden in the sofa linings, though: old trick, and very shoddy work. Not even a double layer of stuffing over the top. And I doubt they’ve _ever_ vacuumed behind the couch cushions!”

John stared at her in disbelief as she beckoned, and Sherlock strode briskly over to join her. She poked him in the ribs with one bony finger as they walked together.

“Now you just keep your hands where I can see them, Mister; we didn’t do all that work babysitting you through withdrawal just for you to have another relapse now.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” muttered Sherlock, although John noticed that his hands were out of his pockets now, held obediently forward with the palms up and fingers spread. “I have neither the desire nor the need to end up back on drugs again.”

“ _And_ I’ll be frisking you on the way out,” she told him, adding in another poke. “I know all the hiding places, and you’re not too old for me to turn you over my knee if I find anything, young man!”

With a sigh, John hurried along behind.


	3. The Case of Mr Snuggles

“What do we do now?” demanded John, panting, as they skidded together around the corner onto an empty street.

They’d managed to get a headstart on the gang of fifteen very angry dognappers who were pursuing them, but they were losing ground. The road was too open—endless ornate fences blocking them off from hiding in any of the luxuriant gardens or houses.  The side streets too dangerous—zig-zagging along between the houses was too likely to lead them back into a trap now the gang had split up in an attempt to cut them off.

John hadn't even brought his gun—of course he hadn't brought his gun.

The case was the kidnapping of a toy Shih Tzu puppy for God’s sake. How had John been supposed to guess they’d be _armed_?

“It’s all right,” said Sherlock, glancing at John with a breathless grin, before putting his head back down to focus on his feet. “I called for backup.  Just _run_.”

“Ruff!” barked Mr Snuggles, his fluffy white head protruding from the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, jolting along as they ran.

John could hear the bass thrum of the engine from three blocks away, and closed his eyes in despair. Then quickly opened them again, because the pavement was quaintly rough and he couldn’t afford to take a tumble right now.

“Sherlock!” The scream of the engine and the squeal of tyres was getting closer. Very quickly. Closer than three blocks could be travelled within the speed limit.  “ _Mrs Hudson_ is _not_ _backup_!”

“You want to bet?” asked Sherlock, and winked as the car screeched to a halt beside them just as cries began to ring out from the corner behind them—and the one ahead.

_“There they are!”_

_“You won’t get away!”_

_“Aim high, don’t hit Mr Snuggles!”_

The window rolled down letting the blaring sound of _Highway to Hell_  spill out, along with a high-pitched voice yelling, “Get in!”

She needn’t have bothered; Sherlock had already torn open the rear door and dived across the back seat, rolling through to the far side, and John wasn’t far behind him.

Another squeal of tyres pressed John flat back into the seat; the door slammed itself shut as the car screamed away from the kerb.

“What have you boys got into this time?” asked Mrs Hudson crossly. “ _What_ the folks from my knitting club will—”

John ducked below the line of the seat as a shot rang out from behind, shifting the focus of Mrs Hudson's glare into the rearview mirror.

Without looking, John reached out one hand onto the top of Sherlock’s stupid floofy head— _obviously_ he was peering out the back, trying to see the shooter, and pushed it down again.  Before he could let go, they swerved, making John reel for balance and fall and landing heavily on top of Sherlock.  Mrs Hudson spun the wheel back again, fishtailing wildly around the corner.

“Ruff RUFF!” protested Mr Snuggles, squashed between them underneath John, and sank sharp little teeth into his arm. “Rrrrrrrr!”

"Aaargh!" cried John at the assault.  He reared back and fell across the seat, clutching the tiny double-horseshoe of bleeding pinpricks on his arm.

Sherlock shook out his coat and popped up for another look out the back, absently petting the now angelic-looking Mr Snuggles as he said, “I think they’re—”

“Stay _down_ , you idiot!” snarled John, diving at Sherlock again to push him back below the window line, barely dodging another bite—just as a second shot rang out, then a third, punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and a shower of crystal fragments pattering around them on the back seat. “Jesus _Christ_! Mrs Hudson! Are you okay?”

“I’ll be putting that on your rent bill, Sherlock Holmes!” she called, glaring at them fiercely in the rear view mirror, shifting gears smoothly as she accelerated them down the main road and out of sight.

“Ruff-RUFF!” agreed Mr Snuggles, giving John a look of pure white, fluffy malevolance.

John held up his hands in surrender, gladly retreating to his own side of the car.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” sighed Sherlock, rolling his eyes.


	4. The Return of Mr Snuggles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #13: (Picture of puppies)
> 
> Sorry this is particularly, as Mr Snuggles would have it, ruff.

“Ooh-ooh!” called Mrs Hudson at the door to the stairs.

“No, Mrs Hudson, please don’t come in!” called John quickly, hands still held above his head.

But it was no use: Mrs Hudson had never seemed to hear that kind of protest on the rare occasion it was offered, although she always looked a little surprised to have caught John in the midst of cleaning up whatever the latest mess Sherlock had made, instead of catching the two of them in flagrante delicto as she’d obviously hoped.

“I thought I heard guests up here, boys,” she was scolding under her breath as she backed in through the door, pushing it open with her hip as she balanced a large tea tray in both hands. “I’m not your housekeeper, but it does my heart ill to think of the way you never offer—oh!”

The leader of the dognappers had swivelled to look at the door, although he kept his gun trained on John and Sherlock, while his compatriots tore the flat apart searching for Mr Snuggles.  To be honest, John would just as soon they took the damned thing, which had managed to bite him three times more in the half hour they’d been waiting for their client to come and pick him up. But it _was_ a matter of professional pride, he supposed, that he gave no indication of where the creature’s location.

Besides, he didn’t want it getting loose again.

“I—” fluttered Mrs Hudson, as she turned around and suddenly realised the gravity of the situation. “Heavens.”

“I’ll take a cuppa, love,” said the leader of the dognappers, grinning. “I’m parched.”

Mrs Hudson frowned down at the tea tray, and then back at the gun-wielding man, obviously torn by the etiquette of the situation where guns were involved.

“Come on, bring one over,” he prompted. “We’re not staying long. Two sugars, no milk.”

Mrs Hudson made a disapproving sound, but found a place for the tray and made up the cup as requested.

“Found him!” yelled weedy, besuited man bent over the cardboard box in the corner where John had finally managed to corral Mr Snuggles.

“Told you we wouldn’t be long, love,” the leader assured Mrs Hudson.

“It’s definitely him,” cried the man holding up Mr Snuggles in excitement. “Just look at the shape of those eyes! That’s the Empress’s Pride bloodlines, and no mistake!”

Frowning at the struggling Mr Snuggles and still clutching the teapot in her right hand, Mrs Hudson brought over the cup and passed it to the leader of the dognappers.

“Wonderful,” he said, giving her a smile as he took the cup. He turned away to look straight at Sherlock, his gun pointed halfway between the two men as he took an ostentatious sip of tea. “We’ll take our leave then, Mr Holmes. Thank you for looking after our little friend—and for the cup of tea—you do have excellent housekeeping here!”

“Vatican Cameos,” said Mrs Hudson sharply, and smashed the teapot over the back of his head. “I am _not_ their housekeeper!”

“Aagh!” gurgled the leader amid the hot tea gushing over his head and fragments of tumbling porcelain. His hands went to his face, clutching at his burning eyes; Mrs Hudson caught the falling teacup before it could hit the ground, while John dived forward to grab the gun out of his limp hand and turn it back on him and Sherlock went sideways for the men nearby.

“Ruff ruff, rrrrrrrrr!” snarled Mr Snuggles, and sank his teeth into the hand of the man holding him, as Sherlock disabled his confederate. 

After a long, confused moment in which it became clear that three retired dog show judges were no match for Sherlock’s Judo skills, nor Mr Snuggles teeth, nor possessed of the physical courage to look John in the eye while he was holding a gun—or, for that matter, Mrs Hudson, who had put down the rescued teacup and was fiercely brandishing a sturdy-looking sugar bowl at anyone who dared move—everything went quiet.  Mr Snuggles darted across the room and back under the couch.

Casting the disappeared dog a hopeless look—he'd got a further two bites extracting the thing from that same couch earlier on—John began chivvying the men to make an orderly line for Sherlock to tie up with the cable-ties they kept handy in the skull for just this sort of emergency.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” sighed Mrs Hudson, looking around and taking stock of the situation. “That was my best teapot. Goodness, it always makes such a _mess_ when you bring your work home. And where did that dear little creature get to?”

“Mrs Hudson, no!” shouted John, as she bent down beside the couch to look for Mr Snuggles.

He gave an agonised look at the sullen men surrounding Sherlock waiting for their turn to be tied up, and wondered if it would be better just to drop the gun and dive for the demon dog before it savaged Mrs Hudson. Were her tetanus shots up to date? He hadn’t made sure recently, and it would possibly be best to give her a course for rabies, too.

Apparently, it didn’t matter, though, as when Mrs Hudson crouched down and Mr Snuggles flew out in a fluffy white cannon ball, he rolled to a halt in front of her and lay on his back, exposing his pale pink tummy.

“Who’s a good boy then?” she asked the innocent-seeming puppy, and rubbed his belly. “Biting that nasty man! I think I’ve got a treat for you downstairs! Yes, I do!”

“Yes, where _are_ those scones?” demanded Sherlock. “I heard the clatter of the butter dish on the windowsill earlier; surely they should be done by now, and yet....”  He gestured to the tea tray in dissatisfaction.

Mrs Hudson gave him a scathing glance. “I was baking scones _before_ you proceeded to get my back window shot out,” she reminded him. “Not to _mention_  forcing me to drastic action with my best china! Those scones are for my book club.”

She apparently considered this for a moment

“Unless you can track down a new teapot for that set,” she conceded, rubbing behind Mr Snuggles’ ears and eliciting a series of contented little wuffs and delighted wriggles. “I _do_ like the pattern you know, sentimental—it was my wedding china! Match that set, _perhaps_ I might be able to spare a scone or two.”

Sherlock grinned, pulled the last tie tight, and then left the dognappers in a sulky heap.  He produced his magnifying glass examine the soggy shards.

“You _do_ know how to provide appropriate motivation, Mrs Hudson. I’ll have a new pot here within the hour.”

“And another cup, too; don’t think I’ve forgotten about that one you broke!”

“You dropped it!” protested Sherlock.

“ _You_ were too _high_ to catch it!” returned Mrs Hudson stonily. She picked up Mr Snuggles and tucked him under her arm, giving his chin a tickle. “ _And_ you’d manipulated the whole thing to get to John, in any case! Replace that cup _and_  the saucer, or _no scones_!”

John sighed, keeping the dognappers’ gun trained on the tied-up men, and a wary eye on the happily squirming miniature hellhound in Mrs Hudson’s hands as he pulled out his phone to call Lestrade. And their client, to see what was taking her so long.

The sooner Mr Snuggles was off the premises, the better.


End file.
